


Kneel

by LadyFangs



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Betrayal, Brutality, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Mirror Universe, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Written for the USS Archangel Fic Exchange For AnakinskvwalcrPrompts: 1. Emperor Michael/Consort Lorca, preferably with a power imbalance and a whipped, adoring lorca 2. touch & intimacy, accidental or not (preferably prime michael/mirror lorca but i’m not picky) 3. jealousy & possessiveness ratings: any. Please don’t include: romantic lorca/cornwell or lorca/landry, modern au or non-con.In the end, she chose him. Michael has never said what made her do it.  But the blade turned. And Georgiou was cast down into the mycelial abyss. Maybe it was destiny after all that forced him to his knees before her. Destiny, that made him pledge fealty to her. Only before Michael does Lorca humble himself.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 

This world is different.

 

The federation does not exist. Democracy is a failed ideal whose demise has given birth to anarchy, now controlled by unflinching absolutism.

 

 We are called the Empire. We rule with authority, control with force. Those who oppose us are destroyed.

 

There is no compromise here, only submission.

 

Those who choose not to submit, are destroyed. There are no exceptions.


	2. Part 1

“Kneel.”

 The staccato pulse of her footsteps ricochets off stone walls like phaser fire, pleasant to her ears. Not so much to the dark haired prisoner currently in chains before her.

 He lunges forward, screaming as he tries to attack, the chains clanging loudly as he struggles against the restraints. She side-steps, the movement quick and elegant, deceitful in their simplicity and taunting in their callousness.

 She smiles sweetly at her captive, lifting one long leg, clad in a thigh-high boot, and placing the heel of it on his chest. She bears down gently at first, admiring the way the sharp point digs into his flesh, then harder-- the circular imprint marking its target. It teases, it taunts, back-and-forth, harder still and then, suddenly withdraws...

 Then kicks. Hard. The force of the blow knocks him to his knees, the chains straining and cutting his wrists.

 He falls back, head down as he pants for breath.

 She moves to stand over him, legs straddling his prostrate form, as he breathes deeply, eyes closed.

 He is slave and she is master. She relishes her position of power as she looks down at his still form and licks her full lips slowly, allowing the high to infiltrate her mind—the control, the domination… it is becoming an aphrodisiac.

 The feeling is made even stronger by the fact that she knows _he_ watches her every move.

 Her hands journey the road that is her body, from the highest peaks of her breasts, held high by the tight fit of the Terran uniform jacket, her legs exposed by the short skirt she has chosen for this, and only this moment.  

 “Open your eyes. WATCH.” It is not a request.

 The command is delivered with a cold, calculating calmness. It is soft, yet frozen, matching the intensity that burns in her brown eyes as she looks down at her prisoner.

 He obeys and slowly lifts his face.

 Her eyes slip closed as she inhales deeply, letting her hands continue their wanderings on her body, one carefully manicured finger finding her wet spot and slipping between the folds.

 Slowly, she lowers herself over her captive and down, until his face is between her legs.

 She leans forward to run her fingers through his thick hair, letting it slide around her hands and spring back in place.

 Without warning she suddenly tightens her grip and snatches his head up to face her with a force that makes his scalp sting.

 “You _will_ obey me.”

 The release is rough, and she leaves him there, alone in the room. Leaves him alone to contemplate how it came to be that she would rise, and he would fall.

  _“Kahless…T’kuvma…”_

 He whispers, prayers to idols he no longer believes are listening. Words from his mouth in a language he doesn’t know.

.

.

Now, shielded behind closed doors, she watches him through the glass dispassionately, fueled by anger and betrayal. Of all the times, in all the places, it would figure that he would reveal himself.

 Ash has fallen. But Michael knows _she_ cannot slip. Everywhere, in every place, there is always someone watching. She knows the roles they all occupy now.

 A second door opens. Heavy footfalls come from behind. The touch of a body against her back. Large hands slip around her waist. Her sides, her breasts.

 His breath is warm against her neck, the touch firm.

 “I was wondering when you would come to join me,” she says, raising her hand to caress him gently on the cheek.

 Her fingers slip to the back of his neck, through his hair. Massaging. Caressing. Feigning intimacy.  

 A play. An act. Both are assigned to their roles.

 That’s what she tells herself.

 It is just a role.


	3. Part 2

**Part 2**

 

“You did good. _She_ would be proud,” Lorca says as he kisses Michael’s neck, drawing hot, lazy circles around the base of her chin before raking his teeth over the silken contours of her shoulders, biting down gently—then, harder still, sucking on her skin all the while.

His hands, hot and hard, begin to remove her top as his mouth works its way down. Cupping full, heavy breasts, he squeezes, caressing each brown nipple, kneading, pinching, pulling, teasing…

Her protective breastplate is removed. The jacket unzipped. The shirt taken off.

They’ve planned it. Discussed it. What he could and couldn’t do. Laid out the boundaries for what’s happening now.  A show.

 Eyes are everywhere.

She’s this universe’s Michael. A careful review of that woman reveals a sensual, sexual, deadly creature. Ruthless. What she’s not. It’s how she keeps the two of them separated.

Lorca didn’t have to say anything. He just guided her to the recordings his lover kept. A few of the two of them. Together in bed. Before. During. After. Most were Captain Burnham’s private journals. Her deepest thoughts.  _That_ Michael told her everything she needed to know about who she was, here. She told her even more about who Gabriel Lorca was to her. Who General Lorca was…is…

The sparks of his touch goes straight down to her already wet core causing her to arch into his attentions as she begins to move her hips against his. Urgent.

Her hands, shaking with anticipation, reach down the length of him into his pants.

South -- the direction they travel to reach their destination and she knows they’re close, for she can feel it, twitching in response to her hand. 

Her mind floods with dirty thoughts  as her fingers trace the outline of his erection--  a low rumble escapes his throat—and the next sensation is a painful bite to her nipple followed by a bolt of energy so potent it sets her skin on fire and makes her flow freely.

She is clad only in her boots, shiny, black, thigh high and deadly.

A turn, now, so that she can face him, naked breasts grazing against his still-clothed chest. This cannot hold. Nimble fingers make quick work of his armor and his clothes, reaching down to unzip his pants, releasing him, his cock proud and bold, weighted against his now bare thighs.

 She leans close to the man whose sex she holds, her voice a raspy whisper, thick with lust and that unnamed element that turns innocence into hellishness.

 “Fuck me.”

 A rough hand slides up the back of her thigh.

 He knows she doesn’t mean it.

What this Michael wants is not to be fucked. She wants to be purged. He can do that. Give her that. Rid her of the pestilence named Ash. Or Voq…whoever…whatever he is. A mistake.

 “You’re not my Michael,” he whispers to her. “But I wish you were.”

 He picks her up. A clear, pane separates them from their prisoner.  It’s what they use for balance, as Lorca fucks her standing, her legs wrapped around his waist.

 Ash … Voq ... watches from the other side.

 They both hear the growl. Inhuman.

.

.

Lieutenant Ellen Landry watches them all on the closed circuit monitors. Watches the Klingon-human strain against his chains. Watches as her General, her leader, once again succumbs to Michael Burnham. Back from the dead.

 They were so close, Landry and Lorca.

 Almost there. They had the throne. _He_ had the throne.

 And he gave it to _her_.  

Landry can’t stand that bitch.


	4. Part 3

There is no goodness here.

 It’s what he said when they arrived. Told her what she must become in order to survive.

 She didn’t think she could.

 “That is not your Georgiou,” her captain said. But the woman looked like her. Sounded like her. And the emperor called her, “daughter.”

 It felt real. And it felt wrong. She was torn—loyalty to him. Loyalty to her.

 In the end, she had to remain loyal to herself.

 It’s how she took the crown.

 How Michael Burnham, another universe’s Michael Burnham, now rules over the Terran Empire. How Gabriel Lorca, General Lorca, is now her consort.

 And how Ash Tyler … or Voq … or whoever he is who tried to kill her, now resides in her prison in chains. Some loyalties are hard to break. No matter the depth of betrayal.

 They each have a role to play.

 But every day they remain, the lines between become further blurred.


	5. Part 4

“Hold still.”

 Lorca circles the creature in chains, disdainfully observing the prisoner.

 “I liked you, once,” he tells Ash/Voq?

 “I thought you had grit. You reminded me of myself, when I was younger. Dumb as hell. Fawning. Pitiful. I gotta say…I was WAY younger. Did you honestly think she would ever be yours?”

 Before him, Ash/Voq, lets out a guttural, Klingon sound.

 “Humans are… _jealous_ ,” the hybrid says, voice heavy, thick with the natural accent. “ _Her_ anger is understandable. But yours however, _Captain_ Lorca…” he cocks his head to the side so that he can look on the older man, searching him. “You wanted her.” He laughs again. “’Bring her back in one piece…or don’t come back at all’ … Isn’t that what you told me once?”

 Lorca hears his own words parroted back at him.

 “Do you want to know what she felt like?” Ash/Voq licks his lips, continuing. “How about what she tastes like?”

 Done. He’ll beg Michael’s pardon later.

 Lorca takes two steps toward Ash, and reaches down, snapping his neck. It makes a sharp, cracking sound.

 The body slumps forward, lifelessly.

 “That’s something _you’ll_ never get to do again,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants before stepping over the body, doing what he knows Michael could never.

 “Clean this shit up,” Lorca instructs the guards, walking out of the cell.


	6. Part 5

 

He believed in destiny. His own. Strange, how that worked out. Maybe not according to his plan. But surely, she was always a part of it.

 He’s surprised and not.

 Not surprised at all by her ability to carve a place for herself, here. He knew all along that she could. There was never a doubt in his mind. What he did question, was whether she _would_.

 It was written all over her file. A fellow survivor.

 The death of her parents. The bombing at the Vulcan learning center that nearly killed her as a child. The mutiny for a cause she believed in, but one that led to the death of the woman she loved. This Michael, like the Terran one, was determined to live.

 She’s never spoken of what led to her choice. All he knows is that she made one.

They all went for the sword at once. Michael got there first.

For a moment, he hesitated, watching as she leveled the blade at him. His hands were up. A glance toward Georgiou and saw her gloating, even then.

“Michael…”

“You’re depraved.” She cut him down with her words. And he knew exactly what Georgiou must have said. Nothing he could do to really counter it, either. Some was true. A lot of it really. But not everything was that simple.

“Do it, Michael,” Georgiou said. “End this foolishness. And come back to my side. This is your home, too.”

Maybe it was that. Michael has never said what it was. But the next thing he knew, the blade turned. And Georgiou was cast down into the mycelial abyss.

It shocked him.

Shocked his followers as well.

 For a moment, there was silence as they all looked at each other, each weighing what to do next.

The Emperor had fallen.

Maybe it was destiny after all that forced him to his knees before her. Destiny, that made him pledge fealty to her.

And the others followed by example.

Michael once said she made her own path.

Later, he held her close to his chest as she grieved. They were alone in a guarded room—the room of her other, on the bed he used to make love to that woman in. He dared not tell Michael this. Dared not betray her confidence any further by what he knew of her other self.

“I’ve killed her twice,” she said.

“No.” He lovingly stroked her hair. “You’ve become what you were meant to be.”

“I’m not built for this. It’s not me.”

He disagreed. And he’d told her that.

“ALL of this, Michael. You were _born_ to be a queen.”


	7. Part 6

 

His followers are loyal to him. He is loyal to her. But each side watches the other warily.

No one dares move against Emperor Burnham. They all know her reputation. Now, she is nearly mythical. Butcher of the Binary Stars. The angel that rose from the dead. The prodigal daughter. The new Emperor.

Michael tells Gabriel she doesn’t want this. That she wants to go home. To HER universe.

He knows she can’t. But doesn’t tell her. If it makes her feel better he allows her to believe it. To believe that she’s just assuming a role until she can escape. He doesn’t dare break her illusion.

Lieutenant Landry breaks it for her.

Gabriel should have seen this coming.

It is with genuine sadness he learns Landry is dead, by Michael’s hand no less.

A quick tally of her body count so far—Connor, Georgiou, Landry. Not to mention those killed in the firefight. That’s just in _this_ universe. There are others in the place she came from. Where Michael goes, death follows.

She will claim it was all self-defense. But Lorca knows better. She’s very, very good at killing. Both Michael Burnhams are.

He finds her, in his quarters now, sitting on the edge of his bed, head down.

“Is that all there is for me, here?”

He knows what she’s saying. All the death. He has to tell her there’s more to come.

“If you want to stay alive,” he says firmly. “Then someone must be punished for Landry’s insubordination. She was my battalion. _My_ responsibility. ”

Michael looks at him, understanding what he’s alluding to, an expression of horror coming across her face.

“NO! I won’t. Not you, too.”

“You need to set an example,” he says, voice firm.  “Georgiou set an example. Even I have set an example. You can’t be challenged again. Neither of us can afford that.”

“But I NEED you…alive.”

The last word is nearly an afterthought. The first four are said with a greater intensity.

 “Perhaps...” Lorca tells her hedgingly, kneeling to bring his face close to hers, the plan already forming, “there is another way.”

.

.

Physical pain has never bothered him. A by-product of growing up on Terra Prime, his own life has been little but that. But Michael is another story.

“You WILL do this.” He’s slowly taking off his armor. The silver breastplate clatters to the floor. Outside his quarters, guards wait to take him into custody. They will not enter until she gives the order. She’s not even supposed to be here, right now.

One of the first things he did was teach her how to navigate the hidden corridors. The other Michael had grown up with them—this Michael learns quickly. Especially the passages that lead between their rooms. Unlike other Michael… this one doesn’t share his bed. He’s not touched her since the time at the prison. Even then it was carefully orchestrated. Limits set. Boundaries clearly explained and outlined. It was clinical. Purposeful.

Now, she stands, resplendent in gold and white. A personal choice—to delineate herself from her other. Her boots are gold. Her breastplate is as well. She wears the rings the other Michael did. Save for one, which she’s not yet put on. She’s tall. Proud. He’s pleased to see that. The tears shed initially are long gone, and he can see the queen, the emperor, Michael is becoming—even if she does not, as yet.

He silently hands her the weapon of his destruction.

 The handle is hard, the tails long, intricately woven. Heavy. Soon to be soaked with his blood.

Michael looks at it, then at him. Eyes sad, but she says nothing. Just turns, and leaves.

Lorca takes off the jacket, then his shirt, and settles down on his bed cross-legged to wait until the guards come to him. A moment of quiet to steel himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 7**

What remains of the former Emperor’s court salutes as she enters the throne room, and takes her place on the pillared stand, Georgiou’s sword displayed across one hip, a phaser strapped to her thigh.

“Bring me Gabriel Lorca,” she commands her chief guard—Lieutenant Keyla Detmer. This universe’s Keyla Detmer. Not the woman she once called a friend.

The hall falls silent.

She allows the court to puzzle among themselves about what will soon take place. The anxiety is palpable. But Michael waits, her face schooled in a disinterested, slightly haughty not-quite scowl. It’s becoming easier by the day. She catches herself. And act. Just an act. Until they find a way back.

The doors to the room open and the crowd parts like Moses and the Red Sea, as Lorca is dragged in, and half-thrown/dropped at her feet. His hands are bound. Feet too.

 She hates this. Has seen it before. A hard swallow before she steps down to stand in front of him, but when she speaks, her voice is strong. Firm. Determined.

_“Kneel.”_

It’s a struggle, but he does, rising to the floor to his knees, and lowers his head before her.

“Look at me.” He does. Blue eyes becoming dark, like a storm at sea. He’s probably never seen such a sight, she thinks, wondering a moment if Terra even has such moments. Likely not, from what she knows of Earth in this universe. A place corrupted, polluted by greed and ambition, scarred by war, and now, hundreds of years later, not fully healed. All the things these people have missed out on. Their environment influencing their hardened natures. A tragedy.

“YOUR follower attacked me. She was YOUR responsibility,” Michael says, circling him slowly, the staccato click of her boot heels the only sound echoing in the hall.

“YOU will take her punishment.”

The crack of the whip in the air draws the avid glances, gleaming eyes, like the coliseum crowds of ancient Rome.

Michael’s uniform becomes stained with red.

Gabriel does not flinch.

There are many here pleased to see the great General _finally_ put in his place.

Only before her, will Gabriel Lorca humble himself.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 8**

It burns like a sonofabitch.

Michael did exactly as he knew she would. The torn flesh across his back is evidence.

He’s in his own quarters again. The hot water running down his body, washing away the blood—at first, deep red, then eventually a light pink as it goes down the drain.

The wounds will heal. They’ll stop bleeding eventually, he knows. It’s already slowing.

The water stops and he steps out of the shower, contemplating whether to just pass out on the floor, or attempt to dry himself and make it to the bed. The bed.

But when he emerges from the bathroom, a towel tied around his hips, she’s there, waiting for him.

No longer dressed as an emperor, Michael is clothed in a silken robe. She comes toward him and raises a hand to the side of his face.

“You’re hurt.”

A grunt at the statement of the obvious.

“You’re heavy-handed, love.” He removes her hand from his cheek gently.

A wince comes across her face and she rests an open palm on his chest. “Can you lie down?”

There’s no argument there. He does, on his front. And for the first time, Michael sees the full extent of her work. The gashes are deep, a few appearing deeper than just flesh wounds, and fresh blood emerging. She wants to apologize to him, say that she is sorry for the pain inflicted, that she didn’t mean too—didn’t want too—but she also knows Gabriel won’t hear it. Still Michael feels anguished by what she’s done.

 “You did what you had to. What I wanted you to do,” he whispers to her.

A slight nod. He can’t see it, his eyes are closed.

“Lie still.”

She’s brought along a dermal regenerator, and begins the work of helping the skin knit back together, her fingers pressing in some areas, where the wound goes too deep, to help the process along. Michael is trained in xenoanthropology, she is not a doctor. But she doesn’t trust the ones aboard the Charon—and she knows Gabriel Lorca would never willingly submit to a hand other than her own.

It is tedious, painstaking work. She goes slowly, the faintest of touches across his bloodied, scarred back.

Her hands run across his shoulders, round and solid, down the length of his spine, and across his back, feeling the muscle there, trying her best to work out the tension she feels inside of him. This is her apology.  

A trip to the bathroom for warm, wet towels to wipe off the remainder of the blood.

Once done, she turns the device back on, to begin the work of making the scars disappear.

Yet only now does she see there are far more. Older and faded. One in particular catches her eye—it runs from Gabriel’s shoulder, sideways and down his back, risen and angry, the skin here, gnarled. She traces it with a finger, trying and failing to imagine what caused it.

The hum of the device starts again and she raises it to resume the work of erasing the scars.

“No.” A large hand wraps around her wrist. She sees his eyes are open now, and he’s looking at her. “Don’t.”

“But the scars…”

“Are memories. Reminders.”

He rolls over and sits up in a single, fluid motion to face her, taking the device from her hands and setting it down.

“Thank you.”

Michael nods and moves to get up, but he wraps a hand around her wrist, keeping her in place. “I didn’t ask you to leave,” he says softly.

He takes a long look at her, realizing her legs are bare and wondering if the rest of her is as well.

She sees where his eyes are.

“I should…go,” she says. But he shakes his head.

“You should stay.”

One hand pulls on the sash, untying it. The fabric falls open. She watches as his eyes course over her body, making her shiver.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, quietly.

Her reply is equally as soft.

“Kneel.”

His lips twitch as he moves from the bed and gets to his knees before her, running a hand down a naked thigh. She parts them for him.  

They are no longer acting.

Maybe they never were. Perhaps, the lie was better than the truth, until it wasn’t.

Her fingers stroke the back of his neck, slip through his hair as he slides his arms under her hips and pulls her closer, lowering his head between hers legs, tongue flicking against her slit, slowly starting to make her shudder…and later, to moan.

“Mine,” Michael whispers, head back, back arched.

 Against her lips, Lorca smiles to himself and kisses the inside of her thighs, before resuming.

“Yours,” he tells her.

There is no going back.

This is their universe, now.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friend BlackQat, told me I couldn't write anymore fics until I finished the ones I've started. So, look out for a flurry of postings in the upcoming weeks.


End file.
